


Circadian

by poppetawoppet



Series: this quiet night [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind Fusion, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-19 16:24:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4753052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poppetawoppet/pseuds/poppetawoppet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock decides to clean out his hard drive of a brain, the consequences are unimaginable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Circadian

**Author's Note:**

> beta by The lovely [](http://ktbean.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://ktbean.livejournal.com/)**ktbean**  
>  Based on the idea of _Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind_ in which you can erase people from your mind. I have not seen the movie (I know) so everything else is mine. Title is both an implication of the actual word, and inspired by the song by David Cook.

With his eyes closed, the lights pass by like shooting stars. Sherlock hasn't had much occasion to watch shooting stars, but the thought passes through his mind anyway. He's supposed to be thinking of what he is here to forget, but he cannot stop observing, even now.

The bed stops, and he opens his eyes. The doctor is looking down at him.

"Are you ready?"

Sherlock blinks. He's been ready since the moment he knew John wouldn't be there to stop him.

"Of course."  
  
Dr. Bailey nods to the anesthesiologist, and looks back to Sherlock. "Remember what we discussed earlier. I'll be talking to you the whole time, so you may see me. But I'm not important, Mr. Holmes. Focus on what you wish to forget."

Sherlock nods, and closes his eyes. There is a fixed star now, the one bright light above his head. And then he sleeps.

*

John lets himself into 221B with the key he has yet to return to Mrs. Hudson. He wants to retrieve the last few things he has left in the flat. He knows that he should have done this long ago, but the little things give him an excuse to return.

He isn't ready to say goodbye just yet.

"Clean break. Rip the bandage off fast," he says to himself. "You tell Sherlock that all the time and yet you cannot do it yourself, John."

He goes into the kitchen first; to make sure Sherlock hasn't been starving himself. There is actual food in the fridge for once. John is mildly surprised, but Sherlock had taken care of himself pretty well before John. The eye in the jar in the cupboard reassures John enough that he turns away from the kitchen.

He stops when he sees the box with his name on it on the coffee table. He blinks, not sure of what to do. It's unlike Sherlock to think to gather John's things, but the handwriting is Sherlock's, and Mrs. Hudson had adamantly refused to pack a thing. John approaches the box slowly.

"Maybe he's finally admitted I'm leaving," John says.

There is a strange ache in his heart as he picks up the note on top.

_This is everything you missed, Dr. Watson. Mrs. Hudson will expect your key soon. ~SH_

John sits on the couch, trying to breath. It's been months since the wedding, surely Sherlock understood that things wouldn't be the same. Sherlock had been the first person John told about Scotland. Sherlock accepted it with his usual calm, perhaps a bit of disappointment. But to end it with a curt note—

"Is exactly what he would do. Clean. Remote," John says, rubbing a hand over his face. "I suppose I should do the same."

John picks up the box. He looks around the flat again, searching for some signs of himself.

There are none.

*

Sherlock opens his eyes. It is daylight, the shadow of a house just touching the tips of his toes.

"I'm dreaming," he murmurs as he stands.

The doctor is by the door, silently watching. Sherlock climbs the steps, and looks at her.

"I don't suppose you are here to guide me, are you?"

The doctor shakes her head, and gestures towards the door. Sherlock's name is on the knocker.

"Onward, then," Sherlock says, "let's clean house."

He opens the door. There is a long corridor, and a set of stairs. There are more doors, none of them marked. He steps into the house, and chooses the first door on his left.

Sherlock blinks at the rush of colours, the wall of screens flipping through infinitesimal pictures. Then he hears the bright trilling of birds, the fall of rain outside, endless sound from speakers he cannot see. The air is ripe with the smell of baking, and the hint of cologne. Sherlock touches the wall opposite the screens, the panelling alternating from rough to soft to—

"Of course," Sherlock says.

Watching one of the many screens is John, sitting calmly in his chair from 221b.

"Hello, John," Sherlock says, dimly aware of the doctor behind him.

"How do you see it all? Process it all?"

Sherlock says nothing, looking at John for a moment more. Sherlock knows this John is just a reflection of his memories, an idealization in his mind. But Sherlock is also aware that he is objective enough that this John isn't completely coloured by what Sherlock remembers, but also by what Sherlock has observed.

"I told you once."

"Tell me again."

Sherlock sits on the couch. He thinks back to that night, shortly after the pool, when John's arm is still healing, and it has been raining for a week.

"I told you then because I trained myself to look. I never said why."

"Why then?"

"Because I was always supposed to be proper. In order to be a proper boy, I had to gauge the situation, know what behaviour was expected of me. So I learned how to watch: people at first, then places. What sounds meant, what smells indicated what. I became curious as to why things happened, so I went further. Trained myself to see what everyone else overlooked..."

"Was that truly so hard to say?"

Sherlock laughs. "I can only tell you now because I won't remember telling you later. Because you are merely a creation of my own thoughts."

"Am I?"

"You are. Even now, I'm remembering you, so you'll be gone."

"Will I?"

"The operation works. I researched it very thoroughly."

"Then how do you understand emotions," John asks, "since you seem to hide them so well?"

Sherlock hesitates. This isn't something he discusses. Emotions were not a priority in the Holmes household. But he cannot talk of that yet.

"People react in certain ways when they feel things. I did study psychology briefly. Just because I don't feel it doesn't mean I can't see it."

"You understood me. You saw me. You knew exactly what I'd been searching for, even though I didn't know I was looking. How?"

Sherlock looks at the screens, trying to find something to remark upon, but the pictures fly by too fast. He looks at his hands.

"I don't know," he whispers, "perhaps I saw a part of myself."

"Perhaps you feel more than you can say."

Sherlock looks up, puts his hand on John's knee. "Perhaps."

It's as much as he can admit, even to himself. John nods once; putting his own hand on top of Sherlock's for a moment.

"I think maybe you can leave now," John says. "After all, you have other rooms to rid of me yet."

"I wish I had your courage."

"My courage?"

Sherlock swallows. He hasn't meant to say it out loud, but it's there now.

"Your courage. You told me exactly what I meant to you, and I never said a word."

"Aren't you telling me now?"

Sherlock nods, and stands.

"Even now, you are the only one who knows how to listen to me."

John says nothing. Sherlock turns away, walking to the door. The doctor opens it for him, and gestures for Sherlock to look back. Except for the screens, the room is empty.

*

"John, what a lovely surprise."

John sets the box down again, and turns to see Mrs. Hudson.

"I tried to call Sherlock, but he's not answering. I saw the box here, and I thought I'd be on my way."

"Nonsense. You and I will have a spot of tea before you go. After all, Sherlock told me he wouldn't be back for hours, if you are so intent on avoiding him."

"Is that so?"

"That's what he told me," Mrs. Hudson says. "That he'll be gone for a long time, and that Lestrade would be by to deliver that box to you, and then they'd be both back in the wee hours of the morning."

"I see. Then tea would be lovely."

Mrs. Hudson bustles into the kitchen, humming.

"So how is the lovely Victoria? Is she excited about her new job?"

"Yes. She sends her love, as always."

"You really should check that box, just to make sure Sherlock hasn't dropped anything unusual in?"

John laughs. "I'm sure he did just fine. I suppose I should, though. Scotland isn't so close that I can just drop something off."

Mrs. Hudson smiles at him, and begins to catch him up on the local gossip. Six months of the neighbour’s cats wailing, cases he's missed, and one flat mate that lasted two weeks. John idly opens the box, shuffling through it. Everything seems in order. He spies Sherlock's scarf, although that just may be Sherlock's way of telling John to stay warm and be careful. John takes it out, weighing the dark, grey wool in his hands.

Then he sees the pamphlet, buried just under one of the bottom flaps. John looks up, and makes sure Mrs. Hudson is still busy fussing with the tea. Then he carefully picks it up.

_Is there a memory you are trying to forget? A love lost you simply cannot live with remembering? A terrible tragedy you'd like to erase? We can help._

John puts the flier down, sitting on the couch.

"He wouldn't," he whispers.

_"I only have so much room in my head, John. Astronomy isn't exactly at the top of my list of things to know."_

John closes the box, hands shaking.

*

The doctor opens another door, wordlessly inviting Sherlock in. Sherlock stands in the doorway, taking in the room.

There are strings and ropes everywhere, ranging from clear fishing line to brightly knotted scarves. They criss-cross from one end of the room to another, their paths intertwined in ways that would take days to unravel. Years.

There is a great chair in the middle of it all, made of the bits of string that fill the room. Sherlock can see that all the lines lead to the chair, eventually. He makes his way through the tangles, ever aware of the silent doctor's eyes.

And there is John, waiting.

"You shouldn't be here," Sherlock says.

"Why?" John asks.

"Because these are the lines of logic. Reasoning. How everything connects, eventually. This is how I see things."

"So?"

Sherlock looks to the doctor, who merely closes the door and leans against it.

"You defy all my logic and reasoning."

John gives Sherlock a crooked smile. "Gets easier, doesn't it?"

Sherlock turns away, running his hand along one of the lines.

"You don't fit here. You make too many knots."

"That's never bothered you before, Sherlock."

Sherlock sighs. "No. It helped considerably at times, if I were honest. But now you make it worse."

"I haven't left yet."

"You got married. You made a promise to someone else."

The only sound is the shifting of the lines in the otherwise empty room.

"That's something you should have discussed with the real John. The one that isn't in your memories Sherlock."

Sherlock shakes his head. "Why? I couldn't stop it. He's happy with her. I'm surprised it didn't happen earlier. Now I'm just cleaning up."

John leans back in the chair. "That's not like you. You've moved past that person."

Sherlock backs away, stepping over a rope. "No. I've only been him to everyone else. You were the only one who saw someone different."

"Sherlock."

Sherlock shakes his head, backing away. The lines are beginning to untangle, the chair disappearing completely. He doesn't look back as he walks out the door, but he knows if he does, the lines will be in their proper places again.

*

John sets the box under the stairs, so he can get it later. Mrs. Hudson is tucked away in her flat, hopefully sleeping. He walks outside, gathering his coat close. He isn't leaving yet. He's waiting for Lestrade, just to ask a few questions.

"John."

"Hello. I suppose you're here to pick up my box to deliver to me later."

Lestrade nods once, looking out into the street. "I suppose you've seen the pamphlet."

"Why?"

Lestrade rubs his hands together, thinking.

"There's a case."

"There's always a case."

"There's been a case for the last four months."

John leans back against the wall, rubbing his eyes.

"He's never had a case that long."

"I know," Lestrade says. "He said. He said to tell you you took too much room. That he needed time to reprogram."

John closes his eyes, and his hand forms a fist.

"I shouldn't have left."

"You got married."

"I—"

"John, it isn't your fault."

John opens his eyes. "How can it not be, when I'm the one he's trying to forget?"

"Fine. Maybe it is. But if Sherlock let you in there, he should have been prepared for the consequences of letting you go."

"I want to be here when he gets back."

"I don't think—"

John braces his hands against the wall behind him, before he does something completely stupid.

"No, you don't think. I'll just be a doctor attached to Scotland Yard that you've called in to check on him when he comes home. Maybe Mrs. Hudson called in a favour. I don't care. I still have a key. I still care."

Lestrade looks at him a long time. "Can you be detached?"

"I can be professional. After all, I lived with him. I know a lot about detachment."

"Then stay. But I won't hesitate to make you leave if I think you need to."

John nods once. "When do you pick him up?"

Lestrade looks at his phone. "I need to leave now, actually."

"I'll be waiting."

Lestrade gets back into the car. John watches it disappear down the street. When he goes back into the building, he shifts the box so it's hidden, and then goes upstairs to wait.

*

Sherlock doesn't wait for the doctor, opening the door himself. John has always said the easiest way to remove a bandage from an old wound is to do it quickly—

John. He is supposed to be forgetting John, but he is all over this house, all throughout Sherlock's memories.

"A library," Sherlock says.

There are endless bookcases, fireplaces and chairs. He walks over to a shelf. There are histories, science books, and the great works of literature he had to read as a child. In the far corner by one of the fires, John is curled up with a cup of tea in one hand, and a novel in another.

"You never did read for pleasure."

Sherlock sits in the chair opposite of John.

"No. I never thought it worth my time."

"You never wanted your mind crowded with silly stories about fake people; I believe your words were."

"You seemed to like them."

John sips his tea, a small smile on his face. "Saved your life once."

"I was never really in danger."

"Liar."

Sherlock laughs. He aches to sit at a fire and argue with John again. But this is not his John, and he does not laugh with Sherlock.

"Fine," Sherlock says. "Maybe you did save my life, and maybe it was because you remembered something from one of your books. It means nothing."

"It means everything."

"Stop turning things around on me, John."

"Stop pretending I don't matter," John says. "If I didn't matter, you wouldn't be trying to forget me, I'd already be forgotten."

Sherlock opens his mouth and shuts it again.

"I never told you just how much you changed me."

"And now you never will."

"Maybe it's better that way," Sherlock stands, pushing his chair away. "Maybe it's better I never remember a life that was better than I had before. Fuller. Maybe I don't want to go back to the way I was before. Maybe I do want to go back, but I don't want to know how lonely I really was."

"People lose each other all the time, Sherlock," John says.

"I've only ever had you."

"Now you say it."

Sherlock sits again, his face in his hands.

"By the time I thought to, you had already married her. Moved out. On your way to Scotland. For her."

"Maybe I would have stayed. For you."

"I could never have asked you that," Sherlock says.

"You have to finish. If you're going to erase me, just do it already."

"Rip off the bandage quickly."

"Yes."

"I did try to read one of your books once. But I couldn't, for the life of me, understand it."

John smiles and shrugs. "Come on, let's go upstairs and finish this."

"What's upstairs."

"Everything."

Sherlock nods and lets John lead him out of the room. The doctor, impassive as ever, follows them up the long flight of stairs to the last room.

*

John sits on the stairs before going up to the flat for a long time, winding Sherlock's scarf around his hands, twisting it around the banister. When he realizes it's going to be a few hours, he decides to go back to the flat. He wanders the rooms, remembering.

The wall has been re-papered, the holes filled in where Sherlock had shot at it. John realizes that even though he is happily married, he could have stayed here and been happy too.

"What if I chose wrong?"

He twists his wedding ring on his finger, wondering whatever happened to the cane he first brought here. There is never an easy choice, living with Sherlock. John laughs a little, because without Sherlock, he would have never met Victoria, and never been married at all.

"What if I chose differently?"

John could almost see Sherlock's smile then, because there was the right question. What if he had let Victoria go before it got serious? What if he had stayed in his chair when Sherlock had asked him to that very first crime scene?

There was no reason at all for him to stay, except to see Sherlock one more time, to end it, to know it was truly over.

"What do I choose now?"

John looks to where he hung his coat and Sherlock's scarf, and waits.

*

The last door reveals a great laboratory.

"The sciences," Sherlock says.

_"The sciences," Sherlock says, "are everything. Most cases I've come across have been solved by one or more of them. Without science—"_

_"Life is more that an experiment, Sherlock," John says._

_"Life is a great experiment. We all have our own hypothesis, our own control. It is the ultimate amount of variables and theories, waiting for someone to find the right one."_

John has disappeared, but Sherlock knows he cannot be far. When Sherlock walks around the room, he realizes John is everywhere. Sherlock sees him in the trainers under the microscope, the pills being analysed by a faceless chemist, and on the wall, there is a diagram of the trajectory of the bullet that once hit John's shoulder, and led him home from war.

But John isn't actually in the room. Sherlock has never asked him to help with an experiment, never once thought to include him. Even when it was medically inclined. The sciences were his realm. Except—

Sherlock smiles, "I haven't seen the stars yet."

There is a closet door, with the faint line of the moon and stars etched onto it. Sherlock climbs the stairs behind it, to find John lying on the roof, watching the night sky.

"I never was much one for astronomy."

"I know."

Sherlock lies down next to John, and turns his face to the sky.

"I don't suppose you can tell me anything I don't know."

"I'm just a part of you. What do you want me to say?"

"I don't know. Show me a shape. Tell me my future. Why do we wish on stars? Why should I know anything of them at all?"

John says nothing.

"All I know," Sherlock says, "is that they are gas and rock. That they make up the rest of the universe of which we are an insignificant part. That sailors used them to guide their ships in the night, and that you always look to them, even when you can't see them."

"You won't know that much tomorrow."

"I'll see them and ignore them. But maybe I'll look at them and remember something."

Sherlock turns to look at John.

"No you won't, Sherlock. You'll see great big clumps of rock and gas and wonder why anyone would ever make a fuss over them."

"John, I—"

"Don't make this hard on yourself."

"Please. One more moment. Even though you are only the John in my memories, I would very much like a few more moments. You don't even have to talk. You never wanted to fill the silence I needed."

"And I needed you to fill up my silences," John says. "I can't stay. It's time for you to wake up. The doctor is waiting for you."

Sherlock looks back, and sees the doctor nod. When he looks back at John, the stars are almost visible through his body.

"Don't hate me," Sherlock says.

John puts his hand on top of Sherlock's and squeezes. Then he is gone. Sherlock looks to the stars, trying to make some sense of them. He closes his eyes for a moment.

"Mr. Holmes?"

He opens his eyes. The doctor is standing over him, blocking the light.

"How are you feeling Mr. Holmes?"

"A little tired. Confused?"

"That's to be expected. You had a great deal you wished to forget."

"How long was I out?"

The doctor smiles. "Almost five hours. That's a new record for us. Your friend Lestrade should be here to take you home in about another hour, if your vitals steady a bit. We have a list of things for you to watch out for. But other than that you should be fine."

Sherlock sighs and closes his eyes again. He cannot fathom why he feels so sad.

*

Sherlock is a little glassy eyed as he walks through the door, but he is walking steadily. John stands to meet him.

"Who is this Lestrade?"

John bites his lip. He should have expected this, but it still shocks him.

"I'm Dr. Watson. I'm on staff at Scotland Yard. Lestrade doesn't quite trust the doctors that performed the operation."

Sherlock laughs. "Well met, Dr. Watson."

John shakes his hand. "I'm fairly sure the instructions were for plenty of bed rest, so why don't we head there."

"A bit forward, aren't we?"

"He's here for a reason Sherlock," Lestrade says. "Let's go."

The three shuffle off to Sherlock's room. Sherlock takes off his shoes and sits on the bed.

"I don't really need an audience, Lestrade."

"Sherlock," Lestrade says, I—"

"Gregory. We'll be fine," John says.

"I'll be right out here."

John looks into Sherlock's eyes with a penlight. "Eyes aren't responding as well as I would like. Pulse is also erratic."

"Iraq or Afghanistan?"

John almost jumps at the question. "I'm sorry?"

"Iraq or Afghanistan?"

"Does it matter, anymore?'

Sherlock frowns, "No. Not particularly. This is usually the point where you ask me how I know."

"And this is me, telling you, that while your vital signs are a little peculiar; they aren't out of range for someone who has just been in surgery. Afghanistan."

"Thank you."

"If I ask you how you know, will you at least lie down in the pretence that you will sleep?"

"Lestrade's been telling you stories about me."

"Maybe."

"Fine."

John smiles as Sherlock lies down, his arms crossed.

"How did you know?"

Sherlock shrugs. "You deferred to Lestrade, who would be your superior if you worked for the Yard. But when it came to medicine, you gave orders. Your brusque manner, added in with the slight limp, tells me that you were probably injured in the line of duty."

"I hadn't even noticed anymore."

"That old of an injury, combined with a lack of military haircut, indicates short term service in war-time. Iraq or Afghanistan."

"I'm supposed to be astounded by this, aren't I?"

"At least a little bit."

"Well then, Mr. Holmes, I am certainly amazed," John says.

"Good," Sherlock yawns, his eyes fluttering closed. "Now you tell me something."

"I'm afraid my life is rather uninteresting. I work in a family practice and occasional consult with Scotland Yard."

"Hmmm," Sherlock murmurs.

John sits until he is certain Sherlock is asleep.

"Goodbye, Sherlock. I wish I could ask you why. But I'll settle for knowing you at least accomplished getting rid of me. I'll always remember you with fondness."

John squeezes Sherlock's hand one last time, and heads for the door.

"You left me," Sherlock whispers in his sleep.

John turns and watched a moment more, but Sherlock is still sleeping. He walks out of the bedroom.

"He'll be fine. Make sure," John clears his throat, "make sure he doesn't do anything too terribly dangerous."

"I'll do my best. He always got into the most trouble when he was with you anyway."

John laughs. "Yes, well, I best get going."

"John. I'm sorry."

"No more so than I. I suppose I'll read about him in the papers."

"If that's the way you want it."

John looks at Sherlock's door. "I do."

Lestrade walks over and shakes his hand. "Good luck in Scotland."

"Good luck in Scotland Yard."

John walks down the stairs, stopping at the bottom when he realizes he's put on Sherlock's scarf. He takes it off, and hangs it on the banister.

"No, Sherlock, you left me," he says, taking his box and leaving Baker Street for the last time.

*

_One week later_

"Of course I'm fine to get there on my own."

Sherlock looks around the flat. He feels very good now. Clearer. Lighter.

A bit empty.

He shakes his head. He's read the list he was given, and all his feelings are quite normal. Everything is in its precise place. Mrs. Hudson is in bed, reading her nightly chapter before bed.  
Sherlock puts on his coat and locks the door behind him. Yes, it's his first time out since the surgery, but he feels more ready than he has in years.

"Ah, there's my scarf," he says, unwinding it from the banister.

The night is clear and cold, and the crime scene takes but a half hour to de-construct. Lestrade watches him with a careful eye the whole time, but it is like clockwork. Sherlock keeps turning to his left, as if to speak to someone, but then again, Anderson is on scene, so perhaps his presence is the cause.

Sherlock insists on taking a cab home instead of catching a ride. While he waits he looks to the sky. He imagines the stars are there, just as constant as ever. He gets in the cab, wondering what ever made him think of the stars.

But as the cab pulls away, he looks out the window, watching the lights pass, his very own set of stars to guide him home.


End file.
